All That She Could Say
by LadyOfTruths
Summary: Months can sometimes mean a lifetime. Other times, months can be a lifetime.


Some have questioned my existence for the past few months. I assure you I am alive and well. Life has been throwing me all sorts of bones lately. I've been having a wonderful time, although I miss all of the friends I have made here.  
  
I found this piece on a floppy today, and thought I'd post it. I know I wrote a second chapter.it's just a matter of fining it.  
  
This story takes place 3 years after Dr. Lecter left Clarice at the Chesapeake (film ending). Characters belong to Mr Harris. Meh he can have the originals too. I'm into sharing.  
  
Cheers, LadyOfTruths  
  
For Mr. Thunderpants ~All my love~  
  
All That She Could Say Pt. 1  
  
I've never liked Wednesdays. I suppose I'm too pessimistic to see the flip side; the half way point. Wednesday is in the middle when I want to be nearing the end, and Wednesday is beyond the start where sometimes I wish I could return.  
  
Dr. Coughlin hovers over me as he always does, filling each moment of my time with something.anything to keep my mind in motion. Static thoughts are dangerous, I have learnt. An empty place should be filled, while there is still time. I've groomed so much space for so long, and it is tiring. It is lonely.  
  
Sometimes I don't feel the catheter; sometimes I do. Today I'm not feeling much in particular, I'm numb all over, and I think I'd prefer to be in pain.  
  
"How are you feeling Clarice, no unusual sensations in your arm?" He speaks.  
  
I mumble that everything is fine. I hope he believes me, I hope he can counteract my doubts and fears. Every Wednesday I pray that my oncologist has more faith in me than I do. Pray to what or who, I don't know. Not that it matters much. I see no point in finding faith now, it's too late, and I'm more cynical than I ever will be gullible.  
  
"You've been walking? That's good." The doctor nods at my walking cane which is propped up beside the doorway entrance. "No one should spend their entire day locked in a house".  
  
Of course he is right, but some days I do. If I'm too tired, I stay in bed all day and wait for Amity to come and draw my curtains. I like the view. If I have to spend my entire life in a room, I want to be able to see things. I want to hear the world that goes on, regardless of my contributions to it.  
  
"You're looking much better than last week. And you hair! It's so much darker now."  
  
I smile with the little happiness I can retrieve. My hair is darker than it ever had been. It was auburn before the radiation, and then I wore that hideous wig for a while. I'd never been so relived to have an itchy scalp. My hair grew back a rich shade of chocolate brown, much thinner than before, but it was there. Two years ago, appearance was of no significant to me. Perhaps it's the case of abusing what I had at the time and missing it once it was gone. Now my list of priorities has changed. I have changed.  
  
It's over again. Dr Coughlin re-packed the drug kit and everything to my bathroom; for storage until next Wednesday.  
  
"Amity will be over shortly I presume?" He calls from the hall  
  
"I suppose"  
  
"You suppose?"  
  
"Other people are dying too you know, and I'm not exactly her favourite patient, doctor"  
  
"Amity has no favourites. She's a professional nurse, Clarice" He returns to me with a worried look.  
  
I snort and wipe my weeping eyes. I don't care much for this conversation. I want him to leave me alone with my thoughts and my canvas. Who'd have thought? Clarice Starling, craving to fulfil her artistic means!  
  
"She'll be here soon enough. I can manage."  
  
I reassure him by stepping up and out of my chair. I'm not an invalid, and I won't have him believe any thing but the truth. I can look after my own body.  
  
"I can see myself out. Call me if you need me"  
  
"I always do" I wink and watch him leave my home, past my cramped book shelf, and the medallions and frames celebrating a life that seems so distant from the person I have become.  
  
Dr. Coughlin never questioned my former lifestyle, though I've caught him staring at my pistol champion trophies sporting a concerned glance once or twice. He had known that I was a special agent with the Bureau right before I'd decided to commence with radiation and chemotherapy. He never knew why I decided to leave all together. Dr. Coughlin supports normalcy within his patient's lives, but nothing about my former life was normal or nourishing.  
  
I turn my head to see the clock. 4pm. Wednesday is almost over, and I am glad. I should go to bed and sleep off the nausea. I should sleep before my mood crashes, and I find myself throwing paint around my house like the wild woman I tend to become at 5pm on weeknights.  
  
I retreat to my bedroom with some hesitation. Something is different today. I'm finding it much harder to relax. Perhaps it's the drugs.  
  
Eventually I find solace, but before I lose myself completely, I realise why I had been feeling so uneasy. It wasn't the drugs. The painting on my easel was not of the park across my street, as seen from my window. It was Florence, his view from The Belvedere. 


End file.
